A Moment of Weakness
by silverducks
Summary: Character study and challenge fic - Matthew is left feeling frustrated over things with Mary and finds his emotions get the better of him one day and he begins to clean . One shot


_A/N - This one shot was written for a writing challenge over at the awesome Downton Abbey fan forum (link in my profile). My challenge prompt was "Matthew cleans something". As this is a challenge fic, it is a little OOC, but, that being said, I hope you enjoy reading and reviews are always welcome. (NB - It imagines a fictional tea party scene from the RP over at the DA forum, though you certainly don't need to read that to understand this.)  
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_Set shortly after episode 5._

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><p>Matthew let out a deep sigh as he lowered his book to his lap and looked across the sitting room. He'd been trying to read the last page for a good half hour, if the clock on the mantelpiece was anything to go by, and he still would be unable to recount a single word of what had happened to anyone. His thoughts were too preoccupied and restless to concentrate on anything and he'd finally given up trying. Usually a book was soothing to him when he was restless and agitated, but today the book only seemed to confound and amplify his thoughts and make them impossible to push away. It was the subject matter of his thoughts that bothered him the most and that she still had such a blasted hold of them! Ever since that stupid dinner party the other week, and the disastrous afternoon when he'd invited her around for tea a few days ago, she'd been constantly, and frustratingly, in his thoughts. Her behaviour baffled him completely and when he wasn't trying to understand the sudden shifts in her conduct towards him, he was left trying to analyse just why she had stormed off the other afternoon! He'd only invited her round for tea as they'd chanced upon each other in the village; he hadn't expected her to be offended by his offhand remark, nor for her to stomp out with such a lack of civility. Her whole conduct then had been quite insulting, both to him and his mother, who he knew took her role of hostess quite seriously.<p>

As these thoughts bombarded his mind, he realised his eyes had rested upon the silver tea set in the glass cabinet. It had been an old one of the family's, carefully brought here from Manchester and, in all of Matthew's memory, it remained never used. With a distinct bitter distaste in his mouth, Matthew wondered if it had once come from the great family up at the big house – Matthew knew it certainly came from his late father's side of the family. He glared at it, suddenly finding its very existence quite insulting, as if it epitomised everything he hated and despised about that great family at the big house, about his inevitable future there and, most of all, about _her_. Whilst it had not been the offensive tea set that they'd used that ill-fated afternoon, it still made him remember how she'd glared across her china equivalent and insulted him. How she'd banged it down on the table before storming out of the house in an inexplicable seething rage.

As he glared at the repulsive tea set, his dark mood seemed to manifest itself as imaginary thick black dust on the silver, marring the intricate detail and patterns on the shiny surface. It didn't stop the images from shimmering through the blackness though, faces that his mind projected upon them. Faces of his late father, whose destiny had been skipped over and left to him; faces of his mother, who bore it well, yet whose way of life had changed completely with his; faces of those at the big house, both the family and the servants alike, who had looked down their noses at them when they'd first arrived and, finally, faces of _her_, Mary. Her eyes glaring at him contemptuously, her expression frosty and full of dislike as she talked of him, the sea monster, the upstart heir come to steal her fortune.

"It's dirty." Matthew suddenly said, his voice barely holding in all his displeasure and frustration as the images danced before him on the shiny silverware.

Isobel, who had ignored his earlier sigh and continued on with her letters, looked around at this and gave her son an examining look. He was grumpy, angry, rage simmering beneath the surface; she could tell that immediately from the way he was glaring across the room and slouched on the chair, his hands tapping agitatedly along the book spine. The cause of his annoyance was not much more of a mystery to her either; he'd been miserable for days, ever since Mary had come round for afternoon tea. Even before it, he'd been somewhat out of sorts since the dinner party at the big house. Despite her best efforts though, Isobel had been unable to get Matthew to open up to her, though she knew full well the cause. Mary. It seemed to be whenever he saw her that he got like this; grumpy and sulky, moping around the house like a petulant child! It was annoying to say the least; Matthew's dark moods had a habit of sucking the life and light out of the house and Isobel had thought, hoped, they'd past all this now. Matthew seemed to be finally coming round to the idea that he'd be an earl some day, but now this whole business with Mary, whatever it involved, had dragged him right back into despondency again. Now, it appeared, all this pent up frustration and annoyance were finally breaking free.

After watching her son for a few moments and following his gaze to her late husband's silver tea set, Isobel answered him quite calmly, ignoring the malevolent look upon her sons' face, "It looks clean to me, Beth always gives it a good polish whenever she cleans the room."

"It still looks dirty," Matthew answered, his voice deep, threatening, as he tried to contain his rising fury, glaring at the silverware as if trying to mentally smash it into oblivion. The faces were there, still projected onto the silver surfaces, mocking him, taunting him, until he could take it no more. He got up so suddenly that Isobel almost gasped in shock, before he strode purposefully across the room, yanked open the cabinet and grabbed the offensive silver tray holding it all. "It needs a clean."

Then, before Isobel had chance to speak another word, Matthew had stormed out of the sitting room and headed towards the kitchen, the silver pieces of the set banging together as loud as church bells in the heavy, repressive atmosphere.

Mrs Bird looked up in shock as Matthew barged into her kitchen, nearly dropping the roast chicken she was preparing for dinner on the floor. Not only was she surprised that the master had entered the kitchen, but the thunderous look upon his face quite stopped her in her tracks; it wasn't like him to be so angry.

Without a single word at the cook, Matthew headed straight for the large ceramic sink, dropping the tea set in with a cacophonous smash that reverberated around the whole kitchen and, for all her stout and steadfast manner, quite made Mrs Bird's bones rattle in fear. The tap was quickly turned on and Matthew didn't even bat an eye lid as water poured out, hitting the silverware before ricocheting everywhere, soaking Matthew to his skin. With no more than a grunt of frustration as the water hit him, serving to only fuel his rage, he quickly grabbed the soap and the nearby cloth and began scrubbing. He scrubbed hard, vigorously, at the silverware, letting the soap foam up in the sink as the pieces smashed around, just about audible over the roaring in the tap and the roaring in his ears. He scrubbed and scrubbed, rubbing the imaginary dust off every cup and saucer, off every pot and tea spoon, trying to scrub away the mocking, scornful faces reflected within them. He scrubbed so fast that his arm ached, but he didn't notice, the rage and anger and frustration that had festered within him so long pouring out, bottled up since he'd first received that letter, since he'd first arrived here, since he'd first met the great family and since he'd first met _her_. He'd bottled it up so deeply within him and now it was pouring forth, flowing faster than the streaming liquid from the tap, which still hit the silverware before being refracted about, splashing soap and water and frustration and rage everywhere it landed.

He didn't notice the others in the room, the way Mrs Bird still stared at him in shock, her hands gripping the roasting tray through the tea towel in fright, her face as pale as the cloth she was holding. He didn't see Molesley coming in from outside, staring in astonishment and panic at his master scrubbing furiously away, himself teetering from foot to foot anxiously, trying to work how to help. Nor the maid, Beth, standing beside Mrs Bird, her face filled with trepidation, terrified that her job was precariously in danger, that she had dissatisfied her master and not completed her work correctly.

Matthew also didn't notice his mother, who had followed him into the kitchen and now stood leaning against the door frame, staring in concern and confusion as she watched her son scrub, taking out all his anger and frustration on the family's expensive silverware. She let him be for a moment, knowing all to well her sons fit of rage needed time to escape, and ignored the desperate looks of the servants as they glanced around them in impending horror. After a few moments though, when Isobel knew instinctively the time was right, she walked slowly, carefully towards her son and gently placed her hand on his arm.

"I think it's clean now, Matthew," her calm voice spoke, so quiet and gentle it made its way past the seething rage within him, past the deafening noise of the silverware smashing together, of the water cascading everywhere and past the roaring in his ears. He immediately stopped; his hand stilling as he turned towards her. He expected to see annoyance, anger, reproach in her eyes, but instead they were warm and gentle, comforting and kind, and they helped push away all the rage within him. He looked away from her and back towards the mess in front of him, his own shirt and waistcoat sodden with water and soap suds, the sink and surroundings covered with steaming water as the silverware gleamed back at him, shining brilliantly in the glowing afternoon sun filtering in through the high kitchen windows. The faces were gone now, there was no imaginary black dust to be seen and, as his mother reached over and turned off the tap, the only sound he could hear was his heavy breathing and the continual drip, drip, drip of the water as it ran off one piece of silverware onto another.

His mother didn't say another word, but pulled gently on his arm and Matthew gave in to the slight pressure. Now that the thunderous rage had left him, he felt drained, weak, unable to think coherently and he allowed his mother to pull him away from the sink, away from the silver tea set and out of the kitchen.

Isobel paused briefly at the door, glancing apologetically over her son's shoulder at the servants and nodding at Beth, then the tea set in the sink, before nodding at Molesley, "Some tea please, Mr Molesley, in the mugs." Then, lastly, she looked at Mrs Bird, whose face was slowly regaining its usual reddish complexion, "Dinner in an hour, Mrs Bird, if you would be so kind." All the servants bowed their heads in silent solemnity and Isobel nodded again, before leading her son out of the kitchen and the scene of chaos and destruction within its walls. As if he was still a child, she led him to a chair and Matthew collapsed into it. She sat on the seat opposite, not saying a word, but holding his hand comfortingly until he seemed quite calm again.

"I'm sorry, mother," Matthew said sadly, not quite raising his eyes to hers.

"It's alright, Matthew, no harm done." Isobel said consolingly, smiling at her now guilt ridden son. She was surprised by his recent behaviour for sure, but not frightened. She knew her son well and that, albeit infrequently, he would let his emotions overcome him for a short while. He would be fine now, Isobel knew that, though she was still anxious for him, concerned at what had brought on the fit of rage, for the last time she had seen him consumed with it was when his father died, many years ago. She didn't dare pry though, not now, and instead simply made light of the situation, smiling at Matthew as she said, "Next time you decide to clean the silverware, would you mind awfully using polish instead? It's a lot less damaging than soap and scrubbing." She gave him a warm smile which Matthew returned, before he picked up his book again and started to read, finding the words soothing and calming now, his thoughts and emotion now under his control once more.


End file.
